


All Those Who Wander

by AutumnHobbit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Mostly) Canon-Compliant, Amnesia, Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron Spoilers, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Is A Sort Of Well-Meaning Moron, Bucky Feels, Bucky-centric, Eventual reunion, Excessive Feels, Gen, HYDRA Base World Tour, MORE CHARACTERS ADDED AS THE STORY PROGRESSES, Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Discovery, Self-Recovery, Steve Rogers Is A Well-Meaning Moron, Unreliable Narration, Where Bucky Was During Age Of Ultron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the helicarriers fall, the asset's world is shattered. But he has a name to reclaim, a past to recover, and a score to settle. </p><p>Some of those who wander are lost. </p><p>But that doesn't mean they can't be found again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He remembers heat.  
  
Sweltering summer temperatures. The smell of hot asphalt and leather and...fish? The noise of a city; feet clanking on manhole covers, the distant hum of engines, voices making up a constant murmur. Another strain to the music.

His palms were sweaty from the heat. The hot metal surface in his fingers. The slight flush from heat on usually pale cheeks. A bony shoulder was under his hands, yet for some reason not being snapped or broken. And those words.

All of this, as he watches another corpse fall. The blue and red of the body's uniform disappears beneath the surface and does not rise.

The mission is complete. The mission is complete.

Then why does he feel like he's lost?

  
The constant inner struggle makes his temples throb. The base of his skull aches, the needles pierce his spine again. It hurts. He doesn't know why.

Why, why _why...._

  
Why is he letting go?

  
By reflex, he twists his body as he plummets, trying to shake the stab of panic as the air whips by him. He hits the water cleanly, sinking rapidly and dodging debris. Color invades his psyche once more...Brown, like bricks. Gold, like warm lamplight. A blue and orange flowered sundress. A dull green. A splatter of scarlet blood. A bright red, white, and blue...

...and he spots the colors again. The target is twenty feet below, floating aimlessly, almost peaceful in the water's embrace.

He dives lower, his left arm reaching out and clamping firmly to the target's right wrist. A buzz, a stab, and he feels the oddest sense of familiarity from this motion, this hand in his grasp. Except he remembers it tight, tense with adrenaline and panic. Now, it is limp and still.

His lungs begin to burn. He rolls and swims up towards the light, dragging the target along with him. He flinches, almost faltering, as pain assails his skull again.

The pain intensifies and his lungs seem to collapse in on themselves, but the light grows brighter, and he forces himself conscious until at last the water’s surface breaks, and he gulps down blessed, smoky air. He yanks the target's head above water, as well. He can't tell whether the man still breathes or not.

He begins to swim towards the shore, dragging the target's dead weight. Offhandedly, he wonders where he learned to swim, and when. He is rewarded with another stab of pain in his temple, and he hears himself growl in... _frustration?_ He thinks he's felt this before.

The water shallows near the bank, and soon he is standing, walking as water sloshes against his waist. He is a bit surprised as he shivers in the open, still cool spring air.

He lowers the target onto the bank and watches him until he sees the telltale hitch of his chest, a soft wheeze of breath.

The soldier sighs slightly. He doesn't have a name for the feeling; the relaxation of what felt like a vice squeezing his ribs. But he wishes the grip good riddance.

With the release comes...exhaustion. Only now, as he sags back against a tree, does he really take stock of his injuries; probable bruised ribs, maybe a fracture here and there. His left arm is damaged; his right is dislocated at the shoulder and basically unusable.

And that's ignoring the burning wreckage of the helicarriers still drifting into the water.

He wishes he could stay with the target--though he doesn't know why, he feels as if he's abandoning a duty and every step hurts his chest--he walks away. There is far too much to process, too much that needs finding out. Besides, the target's other allies will find him soon enough. He's sure of it. Better to regroup, try to make sense of this, first.

Still, he can't help glancing back at the prone figure on the shore. He mentally searches through the mission logs, and comes up with a name: Rogers, Steven Grant.

Who was he?

Why does that name seem like it should mean something?

Most importantly...why did he care?

***

  
Protocol demanded he meet up at the rendezvous point and return to the base with his handlers. Yet there was no sign of any of them once he reached the spillway. He sat down against the side of one of the concrete walls, pulling his knees to his chest and glancing around. He strained to listen for the sound of the van pulling down the side, or even approaching...but he heard nothing. He was slightly stressed at their absence, yet feeling oddly glad that they weren't there--he didn't know what he would have done, had they been waiting for him.

That feeling...it was called relief. He felt a sense of pride at remembering. Then swallowed the feeling when he remembered the Secretary's response to his last memory.

There was commotion up on the road. He glanced up, only to see dozens of police cars, ambulances, FBI vans, bomb squads, and more speeding down the causeway towards the Triskelion, lights flashing and sirens wailing. After they pass, the silence resumes. 

When an hour had elapsed and still no one had come, he decided it was no longer prudent or safe to wait. He left the rendezvous point, though his headache intensified, and walked further into the city. Though it had screamed against all logic, he had--with some difficulty, using solely his left arm--removed and hidden his body armor to be retrieved at a later date. Beneath it, he found, there was a long-sleeved, ash grey shirt made of a thin material. He was still conspicuous due to his metal arm, but slightly less than he would have been with the leather. 

After a half-hour of walking, he came to the realization he actually had no idea where the base was. He was not encouraged to memorize things not vital to mission success, and he had always had his handlers to drive...

It begins drizzling. Perfect.

The street had previously been quiet, but now he hears the distant wail of sirens and roar of engines.  He hurries to hide in an alley, unsure of whether it is HYDRA, or local law enforcement. 

A veritable convoy of vehicles hurries by at the fastest safe speed. An ambulance is the loudest of them. He can't help but wonder if the target is inside, and rubs his aching temples clumsily with his right hand. The pressure in his ribs, spreading an uncomfortable heat, has been steadily growing the longer he's been out here alone. Now, it returns full force. Their speed indicates that his condition is not good. 

The rain is beginning to make it difficult to see, which sets him on edge. It soaks the thin shirt, and his already-tangled hair, making them cling to his body tightly. He leans against the wall of an empty laundromat, shivering and trying to gather his thoughts, but, more so, trying to untangle why he the thought of the target’s frailty is registering an effect in him at all.

He doubts he'll be able to find the base tonight. In fact, it may take him longer than days, at this rate. The rain is not too horrible for him now; it provides cover, but it also blinds him to some extent, and prolonged exposure could be harmful to his metal arm, and his body, as well. He needs to find somewhere where he can be easily overlooked, take care of his injuries, and try to find the base from there. 

After a moment of intense deliberation, he decides on following the ambulance to the hospital. He will need to find different clothing, first--the arm is far too much of a giveaway--but he decides on it, and feels better for it. It makes sense. Besides, it will make it easier to do reconnaissance on the target.

Rogers. Steven.

_Steve._

Whatever.

  
***

  
He had a bit of confusion at trying to follow the original ambulance. Its speed made it difficult for him to catch up with, all the while trying to stay out of streetlights and off the main road as much as possible. Fortunately for him, the helicarrier's destruction left plenty of injuries and chaos in its wake, and there were more ambulances headed in the same direction. So, aside from a quick stop to break into a secondhand store and snatch a jacket and a hat, he makes decent progress.

By the time he reaches the medical complex, the rain is gushing across the ground freely, and it's grown almost completely dark from cloud cover. It provides enough cover for him to consider the problem of trying to figure out which hospital the target is in. There are five different hospitals in these few blocks. He glances around at the emergency walk-in. There are paramedics unloading several people from two ambulances, and a cluster of police cars, with officers visible both around the doors and inside. He suspects it's probably this one.

Now, to the problem of getting in. He's not sure if it's safe to try and approach one of the officers; they're likely to be very suspicious tonight. It seems like a better idea to try and sneak in another entrance. He walks around the other side of the building. On the other corner, there's a porch of some kind. It doesn't look overly secured, so he makes his way there. 

"Oh my gosh, are you alright? You look awful."

He turned to see wide green eyes staring at him. A girl; a young one, by her size and facial structure, wearing scrubs and a coat, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, stood staring at him while she stood outside beneath an awning, a smoking cigarette in her fingers. Another, older woman was with her; also smoking and also staring. 

He started to reply, then remembered that he was in Washington, DC. In the United States. He swallowed the Russian reply, and responded, voice scratchy, "Yeah. Yeah, I just..."

"Were you involved with this whole mess down at the Triskelion?"

"No. No, I was just down near Silver Springs, and a car sped by. Clipped me, and went off." He shrugged, wincing at the pull on his injured shoulder. "Guess he couldn't see me in the rain."

"Assholes," she snorted, dumping a bit of ash into the tray. "Look, you look like you're a mess, and have been out way too long in this weather.  If you want, I can get you in and check you over real quick..."

"No, you don't have to..."

"It's fine," she said. "Really. All the minor injuries have been taken care of, I've got nothing else on my shift. The place is so chaotic tonight, I can even keep it quiet."

"I really don't," he said, reaching up to rub his head and groaning when his shoulder throbbed. 

He didn't know how the girl wound up beside him, an arm on his shoulder. "Yeesh," she winced in sympathy. "That's pretty swollen. Look," her voice lowered a bit. "If you've been in trouble before, I get that. I promise, I'll keep it quiet for you."

For a moment, he is too startled to react, and he realizes how strange it is that he hasn't crushed her wrist. The last touches he's received have been anything but well-intentioned.  
Her speech confuses him, as well. Clearly, she must think he's a homeless drug addict; not that he blames her, what with the worn-out jacket and dirty cap he took from a closed secondhand store and his own battered appearance.   
And yet, the hand on his arm is gentle but firm, and good intention practically radiates from it. The feeling is once again familiar, like the whisper of a dream.  
"Okay," he says.     
 


	2. Chapter 2

The hallway of the hospital is bleach-white, sterile and bleak. The asset tries not to panic or shudder at the familiar--and hated--sights and smells. He reassures himself, knowing the girl’s intentions are good, and she’s incapable of harming him, even if she wanted to. There's a cry somewhere nearby, and he can't quite stifle the shudder.

Once inside, the girl leads him along until she finds an empty room and deposits him on a table. "I'll be right back with some supplies. Stay here." With that, she leaves, and the door squeaks shut with a thud, and he is alone with his thoughts.

His mind races. At any second a cop could come looking to question him, or one of the girls' superiors could come by. He tries to calm down enough to think clearly. The girl is not a handler. He can leave any time he wishes. There are three possible exit routes. The door, the window, and the vent. But he feels every ache in his body. Actually, with the cool air flow from the vent, he is uncomfortably cold.

It is interesting, how much he notices when he isn't focused on something else.

The thought of missions draws his mind back to the target, and he winces in shame. How did he forget so quickly? He scans back through his mind, trying to bring up any remaining information about hospital layouts and/or protocol, but comes up blank. That irritating pressure in his chest comes back. _Dammit._

He hears footsteps, and the squeak of a cart, and he tenses. He relaxes immediately afterwards, realizing that the light tread and gait matches the girl's. 

The door opens, and surely enough, it's her, pushing a metal cart before her. On it are various bandages, antiseptics, ice, and other myriad supplies. 

She parks the cart and dons a pair of gloves. "Do you want me to tackle the small stuff first, or do you want me to try your arm first?"

He blinks. He doesn't make choices when it comes to maintenance. It's irrelevant. But saying so could confuse her, so he responds, "I guess the arm. Get it over with."

She nods. "Makes sense." She walks over and lightly reaches her fingers towards his jacket. He barely manages to stifle the urge to lash out, but does pull his arm away. 

She makes a face. "I have to get the thing off to do anything to help."

"No."

"Look, I know what a tatt looks like. Plenty of scars, too," she says dryly.

"The jacket stays _on_." he says firmly. "At least on the left one."

She sighs, but nods, and reaches out and prods his right arm with gentle fingers. Still, it hurts, and he flinches. She frowns. "Hope I won't have to cut it. Guess I'll see if we can get it out." She grasps the end of the sleeve. "Okay. Try pulling your arm out of the sleeve. Not too quickly."

He carefully turns his arm and withdraws it from the sleeve a bit, unable to bury the hiss of pain that escapes. "Okay, that's good. I'll take it from here. Uh...here," she dashes over to the cart and returns with a couple tablets of painkiller and a small cup of water. He knows that it will be about as helpful as chalk, but swallows them anyway. 

She continues rolling his arm out of his shirtsleeve, finally freeing it. She winces in sympathy, and he winces just because. The limb is discolored and looks as angry as it feels.  

She lightly runs her hands down it. "Doesn't seem to be broken anywhere else." She reaches his elbow and grasps firmly. "You ready?"

He nods tightly, already tensing in anticipation. "Okay," she sighs, and then twists hard. He gives a choked off cry before he feels it jam back into place, sagging against the wall with a heavy exhale. 

"Did I get it?" She asks, and he nods quickly. She runs her fingers down it, just to be sure. "It should be fine. I wouldn't use it for a while, though." 

From there, she segues into painting his various cuts with antiseptic, mumbling something about ignorant drivers. He is content to just relax. His handlers did their jobs effectively; just not with as much concern. 

"So, where're you from?" She asks conversationally as she applies a bandage, and he nearly panics again. "Umm..."

"Just cause your accent sounds like Brooklyn. My grandma's from there." 

For whatever reason, he pictures sitting on a fire escape, the heat of the metal nearly burning his bare feet,  and watching a pencil draw patterns on paper. 

"Yeah," he finally says. 

"Oh, cool. How'd you wind up in DC?"

By now, he's decided he'll need to be ready to make things up. "I got laid off after moving here."

"Ah. You a veteran?"

"Yes." He feels mildly guilty for lying, but from her tone he can tell that she's certain.

"Thought so," she nods to herself, a few wisps of ebony hair falling into her face. She tosses her head to knock them back. "My dad was in Desert Storm. Hey, we've got a really good counselor at the VA. You should drop in there sometime. They'd be glad to have you." 

He murmurs noncommittally, and she looks unsurprised. "Well, there we go. All done." She removes the gloves and throws them away. "You hungry? I could go for a coffee."

He hesitates. The last time he can remember actually eating anything must have been in the 90s. "Sure," he finally says.  
  
***

The cafeteria is relatively quiet, in spite of the fact that it is only 6:35 in the evening. The rain makes it seem later than it is. The asset rests his elbow on the table, offhandedly sipping a coffee with his gloved left hand. He had learned to tolerate coffee at some point; logic dictates it was probably when he grew up, but he was never a huge lover of it. Still, it is hot, and hopefully the caffeine will help him keep going. The pastry the nurse bought is truly horrendous; slimy and overly-sweet, but he needs calories, so he eats it anyway. Blech.

The nurse sits across the small, plastic table, seeming as lost in thought--and in her coffee--as he is. The rain continues to tap against the windows. He swallows hard as he watches it. He knows that the storm will give the handlers cover to move. He thinks he should treat this as a good thing. But when he pictures asking them anything about his past, he knows the results are not likely to be good. Better to learn what he needs to know first. 

Of course, they could just take all of this away again. That makes him truly shiver.

"You okay?" His head snaps up and he sees the nurse studying him with a furrowed brow.

"What?" he asks, a bit dazedly.

"You just shivered kind of violently." 

"Yeah, sure, just...cold-blooded, I guess," he says. She hums thoughtfully, then turns back to the window.

There is a clacking noise of heels on the squeaky floor, not running, but certainly purposeful. He glances over, and tenses as he sees one of the targets...Widow? Romanoff? He can't remember exactly what she is called. She still wears her SHIELD jumpsuit. Unwise of her. HYDRA already knows where her allegiance lies, and he knows she doesn't fear them. But there will be more than HYDRA on her tail from now on. 

He hangs his head, pretending to focus on his pastry, but can't help studying her from behind the curtain of his hair. Her facial expression is tight and neutral. She seems preoccupied, for she makes no eye contact with anyone, and simply strides out into the rain. 

The nurse must catch his gaze, because she says, "Hard to believe we had two Avengers in here today. I mean, I guess at least Captain Rogers lives here--goodness only knows where _she_ lives--but he almost never gets hurt. She's been here for minor injuries a time or two." She shudders. "She scares me."

"I'm sure," he says. 

"Guess he must be out of surgery, if she's leaving. Strange, though. Haven't seen the other guy come down yet." She stands and throws her cup into the trash. "Maybe he's staying up there." She glances at her watch. "Well, I've gotta head home. If I still can," she snorts. "I'm sure there's all sorts of a mess out there." She pats his shoulder. "Take care of yourself. You have somewhere to get out of the rain?"

No. But he responds in the affirmative. He's sure she'd offer to help yet again, and he's lingered long enough. 

She nods, then turns and walks off. He hesitates a moment, then says, "Hey."

She turns, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"Amanda."

"Amanda," he repeats. He wonders what it means. It seems vaguely familiar, but it doesn't sound like it would be from Rogers' time period. "Thank you." he finally says.

She smiles. "You're welcome." She turns, waving over her shoulder as she goes. He returns the gesture, then gets up with a sigh, throwing his own cup away.

Time to find out about Rogers. 


	3. Chapter 3

Even with a lack of information about the layout, it doesn't take him long to find the correct level. He only needs to overhear one conversation and follow a couple government suits in the elevator and down a few hallways. He lets them go on while he disappears into a closet. The goons are turned back by two security guards, obviously privately hired to ensure trustworthiness.

The problem, though, will be getting past _them_. He glances around, checking the lay of the land. Rogers' room is a private suite. There are rooms on either side, but no ready connection, except the ductwork. The guards stationed outside could be taken care of, but someone would eventually notice their absence. It's not good for subtlety...and he really doesn't want to fight unless he must. For some reason.

And, of course, there's the matter of the target's ally inside. He doesn't know the man's name, but he could tell by his skill that he is a combat veteran, though his style is straightforward and hard-hitting. He isn't so much afraid of facing him as he is tired...and in this case, hurting him would probably upset the target.

None of this makes sense. If he's not going in to harm anyone, why is he even here? Because he... _wants_ to see what's happened?

He feels a rush of guilt and clenches his eyes shut. No. That can't be it.

Well, if his new mission is to learn his past, it only makes sense to be sure that Rogers will recover, seeing as how he seems to be one of the few people who knows who he was.

_Well, then why not just ask?_

He cuts the thought off with a shake of his head before sliding the door open quietly.

The hall is deserted except for the guards, and it takes very little effort to pad silently across the hall. In the room across from the closet there is a young girl hooked up to a machine, silent and still except for the breath it provides. He slips past her bed and carefully eases the cover off of the vent. He places a foot on a chair at her bedside and climbs in, pulling the cover back on behind him. The vent is small and cramped, but it doesn't faze him. He crawls carefully, pausing at the vent in the target's room. Rogers' companion--for some reason he remembers the man having wings, which makes no sense--is dozing, his elbow propped on a folding table beside the bed. The soldier  is unsure of how deeply asleep the man is. He'll just have to be quiet.

The soldier moves the cover aside and drops silently on the balls of his feet. He quickly scans the room, finding no one else present and the guards still oblivious in the hall.

He steps over to the target's bed and studies him. The captain's skin is pale, eyes clenched shut. The soldier remembers something about the target having a super-healing ability. It stands to reason that it might prevent medicine from working. A quick check confirms that there is no medication aside from a clear liquid dripping into his veins. The bruising on the tar--Rogers' face has faded somewhat, going from an angry black to an angry purple. The only serious wound, the one in his stomach, is covered by the blanket and a thick layer of bandaging, so he can't be sure of how well it is healing. However, overall his health seems to be improving, so he is satisfied that the staff have done their work well.

He is prepared to leave when he notices that the target is shivering slightly. He frowns. It isn't that cold in the room. Still, he supposes that since the man was soaked to the bone earlier, was probably in shock, and likely has cold fluid seeping into his veins, he might be a little more cold than usual.

He turns and climbs into the vent, closing the cover just to be sure. He returns to the closet and retrieves an electric blanket and a plain blanket. Then he returns to the target's room. He gently tucks the blanket around the man with the wings, then sets the electric one over the target.

He has plugged it in, and is lightly tucking it around the man's shoulder when Rogers tosses his head, slurring something weakly. The soldier freezes, glancing toward the man with the wings, but he does not stir. The noise from the machines and monitors must be drowning it out.

The target shifts again. "Buck...?" His voice is hoarse and obviously delirious.

But the asset freezes. He quivers. Then he turns and climbs back in, leaving as quickly as he can.

***

The asset retrieves a map from a stand in the lobby before he steps back into the rain. He leans against the wall outside, still slightly shaking. He doesn't know who the target is, but that level of...emotion is slightly frightening to him. And it triggered an uncomfortable sense of concern and fear within him. The fear doesn't seem to be of the target, however.

He shakes his head and flips the map open, studying it. He finds the Triskelion easily. Tracing the route from there to the hospital is fairly simple.

Now, finding the bank from here might be difficult. He presses his head back against the wall, straining to remember any details about the base at all. Nothing is forthcoming, and he feels burning in his skull. He strains harder, finally recalling that he had seen an intersection directly in front of the bank.

From there, it isn't difficult to narrow it down. He finds the location; seven miles from the hospital. Great. He glances around, unconsciously drawing the coat more tightly around his shoulders. It's getting late, and he needs rest to recover completely. Hiking seven miles in the rain is not optimal for success. Alternate option; find somewhere to spend the night. Avoid contact as much as possible.

***

Rogers' apartment is still and quiet when the soldier slips in the window. A clock in the kitchen reads 11:30 in glowing letters.

The asset slides the window shut behind him. A quick search turns up fifteen bugs, which he quickly disables. They're littered all over--honestly, he wonders how Rogers didn't notice them. 

When he checks the phone, he finds two bugs; and messages filling the landline. Tentatively, he reaches out with his gloved hand and presses the play button. A sharp voice immediately begins speaking. "Steve, what the hell is going on? The news is claiming you were seen being arrested." A beep. Another message. "Captain? This is Thor. Something most distressing just occurred in the London SHIELD base. I am not certain of how I should proceed."

He switches the phone off.

He pads silently into the living room, glancing around. All is quiet and still. There are bulletholes are still marring the plaster, and there is still a dark stain on the wooden floor.

He walks to the wall and traces the tips of his human fingers across the rough edges of the bullet hole. _I did this,_ he thinks, and doesn't know why the idea feels so repulsive.

There are two chairs in the room. One sits in a corner, beside an end-table. The other, clearly used more often, sits next to a window. There is an end table there, as well, and a leather couch on the other side of the table. He sinks onto the couch and curls into a ball, tucking himself into his jacket and drawing his knees to his chest. He closes his eyes tightly and tries to calm down. He should be at ease. It's quiet and empty. He should feel...if not safe, then secure. But there's something about the empty stillness of the target's apartment that sets him on edge. Like one would feel sleeping in a tomb.

Well, it's not like he's never slept in a tomb before. Slowly but surely, he slips away into nothingness.


	4. Chapter 4

It was cold. His knuckles were white, even as pain bit him while he clutched the freezing metal bar. All his muscles were tensed as he strained and reached-- --and then there was a snap, a scream-- _two screams_ \--and nothing but the wind whipping past him and the blood pounding in his ears. And a bone-crunching jolt.

And he finds himself staring at a blood smear, slowly spreading across wood panels.

Slowly, he raises his aching head, bringing his right hand to his face and drawing it away to see blood staining his fingertips. He glances around. The table has been knocked over, the couch askew. The shattered pieces of the lamp lie all over the floor, and there are several papers and books scattered around, as well.

He leans against the couch and huddles for a spell, shivering. The images and sensations seemed vaguely familiar. Familiar enough to be terrifying. When his pulse is semi-normal again and his joints are no longer locked, he stands and begins cleaning the mess. The blood must be taken care of, at the least; too much evidence that he's been here. He also gathers up bits of the lamp and throws them away.

It is apparently four in the morning. The books are still scattered on the floor. He leans down and begins picking them up. He lifts one of them that had fallen onto the floor page-first.

And his own face stares at him from the page.

He sets the table up again and sets the books up onto it. Then he flips open the other book and begins scanning it. His face appears often in the pages; in a uniform, in a blue coat that makes him shudder for an unknown reason, and in civilian clothes. There are also some of a woman who looks vaguely familiar and a group of men...who also look vaguely familiar.

Why did Rogers draw him? He doesn't understand why, if you missed something--which he can only assume Rogers did--you would want to see it over and over and know that it was never coming back. He shuts the book.

He sets it onto the table, and turns to gather the papers. He has them in a stack, and then grabs the last one. The bright colors on one of the pamphlets catches his eye, and he unfolds it. It reads "Captain America: A Symbol To The Nations. Exhibit running January 1-September 9. The Smithsonian."

He sets it down on the table again.

The apartment is still and silent, so he draws his coat back around himself and vainly attempts to fall asleep again. But something is keeping him awake. It never made sense, the tension in his muscles, the slight prickle on the back of his neck. The disruption of the air. Waking up slowly, feeling the eyes, always watching, boring into his skin. The knowledge that he was not alone...

And he freezes, terror seeping into him. Before he rolls off the couch, dropping to the floor and drawing a knife even as he silently crawls into the corner.

Someone else is in here.

He huddles in between the arm of the couch and the wall, making himself as small as possible. The knife is held tightly in his hand--no sweat slicks his palm, no shakes control his muscles, but inside, he is screaming, predator and prey to the last.

How did they find him?

The door opens without a sound, and he inhales silently, fingers tensing around the knife. Barely audible footfalls trail a few feet into the room before pausing. He tries to breathe, but he feels like the already cramped space is closing in, and it's too dark, too quiet, too cold, and the metal is directly above him and all around him and he can't breathe, can't escape...

And the footfalls wander down the hallway.

He sits in the corner, unsure whether he somehow escaped their notice, or this person is not HYDRA at all. He can hear whoever-it-is gathering things from a dresser and stuffing them into something--probably a duffel bag. Then, the clack of heels heads down the hall again.

Romanoff. She stops in the living room. He sits completely still, listening to her breathe. Finally, she turns and leaves. He hears the door click behind her and her footsteps tapping off.

For a few seconds, he huddles in the corner, rigid, refusing to relax until he is certain he's alone. When twenty minutes have passed, he slowly, carefully gets up. The apartment remains quiet, and he exhales softly. He has no idea why she came or what she took, but he doesn't see how it affects the mission, either way.

One thing is certain, however. He is not getting back to sleep tonight. He checks the clock. It is 5:00. So it's only been an hour since he originally woke. It feels longer.

Now would be an optimal time to infiltrate the bank. It is early morning; no one should be there--except possibly HYDRA--which lessens the chance of being found by anyone other than the enemy. And them, he can handle. However, first it would be beneficial to restock on supplies.

He heads down the hallway and opens the door to Rogers' bedroom. It is normal-sized, sparsely furnished, a few old photos and framed sketches hanging on the walls. The bed is made with military precision, sheets tightly, smoothly tucked. Everything appears normal. But the asset knows how people operate. Especially combat veterans.

He opens the drawer on the nightstand and finds a pistol in a worn leather holster. The pistol is easily a hundred years old, but in very good condition. And there are a few crates of ammunition beneath the bed. There's also a safe-deposit box. He breaks the lock with his left arm, drawing several large bundles of cash from within. Army back pay, he assumes. He checks the closet, next, finding mostly simple shirts and jeans. He estimates that he is about the same size as Rogers, so he retrieves a pair of jeans and a plain black shirt. There are also two thick, lined leather jackets. He takes one, unconsciously hoping it isn't Rogers' favorite.

Last, but not least, he takes a sturdy pair of boots, shoving a knife into one of them. He checks the refrigerator on the way out, only to find it bare. So Rogers is barely ever here. He'll have to find food along the way.

He bags up his old clothes and buries them deep in the dumpster behind the office building across the street. He swings the bag he took over his shoulder. Casting a last glance back at the apartments, he turns and heads off into the sleeping city.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm amazed by all the good feedback this is getting! I'm grateful, I really do want it to be good. 
> 
> If you're the type who likes music while reading fics, I think that basically anything by RED and Icon For Hire are great for Bucky. Specifically https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FznlTM5GfI and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csL98Jx9Fn0
> 
> Apologies if any of the info is wrong, I've never been to D.C., but since a lot of the locations 'in DC' were filmed in Cleveland, I'm not stressing over it too much. And I'm getting my gun info from my younger brother, so it might not be perfect. 
> 
> I can be found here on tumblr: http://autumnhobbit.tumblr.com/
> 
> And now, have some Bucky. :)

 

The streets are near-silent, only the occasional passing car to be seen. The asset pauses at a stoplight, which clicks occasionally as its colors switch. There are no cars in sight or to be heard, so he quickly crosses the street. He passes a parking garage, a medical office of some type, and an office building. Further down the street, there seems to be some type of pharmacy. He decides to stop and see if there is anything of use there.

 

It is no longer raining as hard as it was yesterday evening, but it is still drizzling lightly. The road is wet, and pools of reflective water and oil shimmer in the dull glow of the street lamps. All seems strangely peaceful, considering the events of yesterday. The asset is a bit surprised that he hasn't run into some type of curfew, especially seeing as how this is the capital city. He supposes that the city officials might not have trusted anyone to do so. There is a high probability that the next few weeks, if not months, will be spent weeding through everyone who works in a government agency, searching for HYDRA moles. 

 

The pharmacy is still open, a worn out 'open 24-hours' sign gracing a window. He steps carefully through the automatic doors, instinctively wiping his feet on the rug. The only other people in the store are a drowsy-looking teenager with messy red curls and earbuds secured in his ears, and an older woman sitting at the pharmacy counter, asleep on her elbow.

He walks past several aisles plastered with women, scantily clothed and seemingly glaring at passerby, and steps into an aisle full of food. It disorients him for a moment. There are many brightly-colored boxes and cans. After the initial confusion wears off, he begins reading labels. There are many different kinds of soup--not only flavors, some of them have labels proclaiming 'lite,' or 'only 100 calories!'

 

 

What exactly is the point of food with low calories? He finally grabs a couple cans of chicken soup and a few cans of beef stew. There is also some form of jerky, and plenty of water. Lastly, he grabs a bag of apples. As he is heading back towards the checkout, a last-minute sale on hats and gloves catches his eye. He selects a pair of gloves and a hat. As an afterthought, he also grabs a pack of brightly colored hair-holders. 

 

The teenager yawns and glances up from a magazine when be begins setting his items on the counter. "Going on a camping trip?" he asks conversationally as he scans the items across some type of laser. 

 

"Umm...sort of," the asset replies awkwardly. Darn humans and their curiosity.

 

"Do you have a rewards card with us?" the teen asks as he places the items in a bag.

 

"No." 

 

"'Kay." He types a few numbers into the computer. "37.22."

 

The asset digs into his pockets for the cash. He hands the boy two crisp twenty dollar bills. The teen takes them and places them in the drawer. He removes 2 bills and a few coins.

 

"$2.78 is your change," and hands them to him. "Have a nice day."

"Thanks," he grabs his bag and heads back out.

 

The sky isn't light yet, but he can tell that dawn isn't far off. He hurries across the street. From here, it's about a mile to the bank's intersection. 

He opens his bag and pulls out an apple. Its smooth skin is bright red, which somehow reminds him of something. A bit ironic and a bit disturbing. Shrugging the feeling off, he bites into it. It's crisp and sweet, and vaguely familiar. He swallows thoughtfully, then quickly takes another bite. Two fruits later, he's decided: he likes apples. 

He pulls out a bottle of water. He'll have to be careful with this. It's the supply he'll need most, and he had only bought a few bottles. He drinks one bottle, noting that water tastes like metallic nothing. It still hydrates him, but is nowhere near as nice as the apple. 

 

He throws the bottle into the bag and glances around. The intersection isn't far, but it seems unwise to approach it from the open. So he isn't going in the front door.

 

He scans the surrounding buildings as he enters an alley. He spies a fire escape, secures his things, and takes a running leap, grasping a bar and pulling himself up. He climbs onto the roof and carefully glances around. There are plenty of roofs to approach the bank by. First, he stows his bag of food on the rooftop. It'll only get in the way if he does have a fight coming. He checks to make sure that the pistol and the knife are secure, and pulls the gloves on over his hands. Then, he takes several steps back, and crouches, gauging the distance and preparing. Then he sprints forward, taking a flying leap across the gap between buildings. He lands on the next rooftop, staggering a couple steps to absorb the energy. He repeats the process a couple more times, until he is standing on the roof of the bank. 

 

A few air-conditioning units sit on the roof, so he assumes there must be some form of access from within. Sure enough, there is a door that leads inside. He pulls the knife from his boot and flips it open, carefully sliding the  blade in between the lock and the doorframe. Once it is inserted, he gently pushes the door open. 

He steps in cautiously, but the hallway seems empty. No alarms go off. He shuts the door behind him, leaving it unlocked as an escape route if necessary. 

The hall opens up into an open floor surrounded by several private offices. He continues on and finds an elevator. He presses the button, and in a few seconds, the door opens, and he is staring at himself. 

 

He staggers backwards, startled. The elevator has mirrors inside it. _It's just a pane of glass_. He tells himself so as he steps inside, trying to shake his dread. No point in trying to hide, then. The elevator descends, and his head spins. He feels heavy and cold and hot all at once. 

 

Suddenly there is a bump, and the elevator stops. He swallows hard, drawing the knife from his boot and drawing as deep a breath as he can manage. The doors slide open on an empty, metallic-smelling hallway. He is relieved to find it empty, but is still shaken. This area is far too familiar, and he dreads it. He forces himself to take a step out, and then another step. They don't get easier. 

 

His footsteps echo slightly in the cold, closed-in space. He tries to remind himself to breathe, instinctively terrified of being caught. He turns a corner. Up ahead, there is a huge safe door. A small, obviously newer holographic panel is installed beside it. He pauses, examining the panel. Biometric access only. He growls in frustration. He can think of no way to bypass this. _Unless..._

 

He glances at his flesh hand. Is it possible? It has only been a day--it feels like an eternity--but perhaps they assume he was delayed and will eventually return.

 

Maybe that's what he's doing now.

 

He shakes his head hard, then glances back at the panel, swallows. He leans forward and allows the scanner to read his right eye. After a few heart-pounding seconds of calibrating, an electronic tone sounds and the light flashes green as the door swings open. 

 

The smell down here is older, copper and mildew and dust. Blood and money and decay. His steps are slow and stilted. The door is behind him, and there is a barred gate up ahead. His shirt is becoming soaked with sweat, but he is shaking. The knife is grasped tightly in his flesh hand. He shoves the gate out of the way, resisting the urge to tear it off its hinges, and steps into the room. And freezes at the sight of the chair. 

 

The chair. _Not the chair. Please, not the chair again, not the pain, not the cleansing, not the damn chair he hates it, he hates it, he hates the ice, he wants, he wants..._

 

He vaguely realizes he's sprawled on his back against the far wall, staring at the cursed thing, and he pulls himself up, starts to back away, but he can't stop staring at the thing, like some sort of snake that would strike at his ankle the instant he took his eyes off it. 

 

Further into the den, there is some type of vault filled with files. It seems that there had been need of his blueprints recently, because there is an open folder still sitting on the table. Tentatively, he glances down at the words, tracing his gaze across the black ink.

 

_Day #55, March 28, 1946: Experiment with stimulated electrical charges begun. Subject responded poorly physically. Further testing required to pinpoint optimal dosage._

_Day #100, May 12, 1946: Successful experiment. Subject obeyed command given by designated authority figure._

_Day #126, June 7, 1946: Subject successfully defended itself against fellow subject._

_Day #163, July 14, 1946: Subject executed another subject upon order._

_Day #186, August 6, 1946: Subject sent out on first mission. Successful outcome._

_Day #240, September 29, 1946: Mission was unsuccessful. Subject returned compromised. Emotional response varied from sorrowful to vengeful. Situation required thirty minutes of physical conditioning and seven consistent applications of shocking to return to previous level of pliability._

_Day #375, February 9, 1947: Asset's mission successful...._

 

He tears the sheet to shreds. He grasps the next sheet and tears it. This is only one file, and there must be hundreds if not thousands in this vault. Days and days that he only remembers disjointed snippets of, a splash of blood here, a severed limb there, a snowy road and tire marks, submerged in icy water, a neck snapped, a back broken, a man drowned, a woman hanged.

 

He tears through another page and is preparing to rip apart the entire file when a diagram of his arm falls out of it. As much as he hates it, he might have need of it. He folds the awful thing and tucks it into his pocket. Then he seizes the file and tears it in two with his hands. 

 

Suddenly he pauses in his destruction. Far off down the hall, he can hear quiet but purposeful running footsteps.

 

 

The gun is in his right hand with scarcely a thought, the knife in his left. He leans back and tenses.

 

The first one pauses outside the door and glances in. He throws the knife, which embeds directly in the heart. That's one. He falls forward without a sound, and the asset catches him and pulls him in, lays him on the floor silently, and retrieves his knife, waits. Soon enough, a call comes. "Stone? All clear?"

 

The asset doesn't answer, poising with the gun leveled at the door. He hears the footsteps approaching. There is a pause. He inhales. Then the woman leaps in with her handgun leveled. But he's been killing since before she was born. His bullet hits home first, and she falls with a thud into the hall. That's two.

 

There is a cry of surprise from at least five others, and a quick beep, the first words of a call for back-up. He places a hand on the desk and vaults over it, rolling across the floor before coming up in the midst of them and firing in one smooth motion. The bullet sails through the communicator and the skull behind it. Three. He slashes an ankle with his left hand even as he fires. A shriek and a thud, which he finishes with another bullet. Four. The remaining ones are only now managing to drag themselves together. A man and a woman are raising their own handguns. He kicks the woman's, breaking her wrist and knocking the gun away. He throws his knife into the other. He falls. Five. She shrieks, and it takes barely any effort to knock her down, deliver a swift kick to the ribcage. Six soon enough.

 

The remaining two are sprinting off, and he tears the knife out and runs after them. HYDRA must not retrieve anything from this warehouse. He draws the gun and aims for the man's head. He glances back, sees, and drops flat just barely in time. Then his hand is moving, grabbing and throwing something small, and there is a burst of pain and then numbness in the left side of his body. His arm hangs useless and twitching, and he snarls, leaping forward and snapping the man's neck with one hand. Seven. 

 

The only one left is a small, thin woman. He throws the knife. It buries itself in her shoulder. She staggers backwards with a hiss of pain--then tears it out and throws it back at him. He manages to catch it with his right hand, but he is a bit distracted because the hole made by the knife seems to have gone missing. 

She lunges at him and grasps his flesh hand in an iron fist, twisting sharply. That hurts. He twists back and breaks her grip, twirling and throwing all his momentum into swinging his limp left arm into her chest. She staggers nearly five feet back, and he immediately slams into her, shoving her back against the far wall in the hallway. He lands punch after punch to her torso. He punches again, and...her chest is glowing.

 

In fact, _she's_ glowing.

 

Skin and hair and eyes turning fiery orange and blood-red. Something is very wrong. He loosens his grip, backpedaling slightly. She twitches even as she shakily stands, staggers at him with an outstretched arm as he whirls and runs as fast as he can back towards the roof. There is a deadly hum growing louder and louder.

 

Then silence.

 

Then there is sound.

 

Even as he runs up the staircase, he can feel the building shaking, feel heat on his back. He doesn't pause, runs onto the roof and takes a flying leap onto the next building, and the next, before finally turning to gaze back in disbelief as smoke billows from the bank. 

 

Eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note, it's my headcanon that the September 29th mission was to kill Peggy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here goes a reallyyy long exposition chapter. Hopefully it doesn't come off too boring.
> 
> Also, any background on the stories that I can't find any details about, I'm totally making them up. JSYK.

The asset is uncertain of the passage of time. For a while, all he can do is sit on his knees on the rooftop, staring at the smoldering remains of the base. The only thing that snaps him out of it are the people. They start emerging from buildings everywhere; slowly at first, then more and more as the sun comes up and there is no further explosion. Some of them are already dressed, and some are still in pajamas; there's an apartment building further down the street. A fair number of them have cell phones, and soon he hears sirens. He makes his escape, grabbing his bag and climbing down the fire escape before dropping to his feet and walking off at as quick a pace he can without being out of the ordinary.

He has no idea where to go now. He curses himself for not leaving at least one of the foot-soldiers alive--he should have tried to interrogate them. Then again, he supposes it's unlikely that they would have talked.

He shoves his flesh hand into his pocket, fingering the aged paper. He needs to regroup and find information. He has no idea what the hell was up with that woman, but it startled him, and not much does that anymore. It seems like another program similar to the one he was subjected to. And anything that might bear even slight similarities to that torture was probably something troublesome.

He finds a parking garage a few blocks away from the bank. He selects a car that's obviously been sitting there for several months--there's a 'for-sale' sign on the window--and hotwires it. It starts up with only a bit of difficulty, and for a moment, he just leans back and lets the warm air from the heater wash over him. After a few minutes, he sits up and carefully removes his jacket. His right arm has several nasty bruises in the shape of fingerprints dotting it. It hurts mildly, but it's nothing he hasn't received before. He'll just have to wear the jacket for a few hours until it heals. Otherwise, he escaped relatively unscathed.

He pulls out of the garage, glancing around. The streets are only now beginning to grow crowded, and he isn't sure if it makes him feel safer or even more at risk.

Nor does he remember how or when he learned to drive. Ah well. Questions for later.

\---

An hour and a half later, he has discovered that traffic is even more frustrating than he'd expected it to be. He also discovered that hot biscuit sandwiches are far superior to even apples (though the best thing would be to have both. Which he does.)

And he's also found that libraries apparently don't like you bringing your food inside. Stiff jerks. What could possibly make you hungrier than detective work?

Anyway, after he's eaten in the car, dusted himself off, and gone back in and seated himself in an empty corner with several computers and bunches of dusty books for company, he cracks his knuckles, glances around once more, and sets to typing. It's a bit risky to use the internet to search for answers, but he figures that at least here he can wipe away anything that will help them track him.

He opens the browser and types 'shield' into the search box. Instantly, dozens of news articles are all over the page. There are mugshot photos, shots of angry protesters, and some stock shots of government trial rooms. The headlines read everything from "Government Assures Nation That They Are Completely In Control Of Agency Compromise" to "Sign Petition To Demand Accountability." Shrugging, he selects one of the stories. He scans through the text, looking for anything useful.

_...ever since the unprecedented leak of files last Wednesday which revealed thousands of counts of illegal activity on the part of high-level security agency S.H.I.E.L.D, or Strategic Homeland Intervention and Logistics Division. Among some of the abuses were war crimes, intervention outside of jurisdiction, zero accountability, and compartmentalization. The documents also revealed many other abuses by H.Y.D.R.A, a secret scientific division of the Nazi regime long thought to be extinct. This is leading many to question both S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A's involvement in the world over the last fifty years, with calls for impeachment of President Ellis for failing to pay attention to these agencies and their activities both for the government and against it, as well as demands for explanation. Agent Natasha Romanoff, well known in the rest of the world by her code name, Black Widow, is set to testify on some of S.H.I.E.L.D's activities and her own involvement in them. Meanwhile, Alexander Pierce, senior S.H.I.E.L.D official was reportedly killed during the coup at the Triskelion, and there has been no successful contact with Captain Rogers for a statement on the situation, though he is said to be in stable condition._

The asset lets out a soft breath in relief. So Rogers is recovering. That is a relief. He reads on.

_...also in question are the motivations and loyalty of the Avengers Initiative. Though this team was thrown into the spotlight by their successful attempt at repelling an alien invasion in New York two years ago, this new information is throwing their future into uncertainty. Tony Stark is the only member to thus far make a statement on the situation, which reads in part, 'I can assure you that neither I nor Stark Industries were aware of the survival of H.Y.D.R.A, nor of their involvement in S.H.I.E.L.D, and seeing as how my father Howard dedicated his life to eradicating the organization, you can be damn sure I will not cooperate with them. And I can safely say that I am planning on having a very long conversation with the other Avengers on this matter and how to move forward from here. But I can say with certainty that from this day forward, I am retiring from my position as consultant to S.H.I.E.L.D. I am proud to serve my nation, but I will do so on my own terms.'_

The article ends. The asset blinks, attempting to translate all that blather into useful information. So the country and the world have been thrown into chaos and paranoia by last week's events. Things are going to be difficult for Rogers and his allies for a while. Also, that Stark guy sounds really steamed.

Oddly enough, his name also sounds familiar. He returns to the homepage and types 'Tony Stark' into the box. The news pops up with the entirety of his statement, along with some really stupid celebrity gossip. He scrolls past these and selects an article about the man. There is various information such as his date of birth, how tall he is, etc. When he comes to "Family," he clicks on "Howard Stark." It switches pages, and he nearly turns the chair over.

He recognizes this Howard. He remembers a few meetings where he was seated across the table. He remembers a few times where they did maintenance in a room together. Had he been HYDRA?

No. He wasn't. He was...something else. He isn't sure how to describe where he was or what he was doing. But somehow, he knows he has spent time with this man.

He scrolls further down, and there is information about Stark's work with the SSR in World War II. There is information about his company.

At the bottom, there's a section on 'Death,' and his blood runs cold.

The section is plastered with crime-scene photos of an icy road, tire marks, The section reads _'In December of 1991, Howard and Maria were killed in a car wreck. There has been much debate on the internet and in popular legend that they were assassinated; conspiracy theorists cite Stark's recent projects and suspicious conditions surrounding the crash, but nothing has ever been proven, and the actual cause of the wreck remains a mystery.'_

He remembers the frozen rain, and the dark corner of the roof. He remembers the car driving at moderate speed down the icy roads, and the reflection of the dull streetlamps in the paint as he gazed through his scope. One shot to the axle as they turned had been all it took, and off the road it went, rolling over and over.

He suddenly wishes he hadn't eaten. He shoves his hands into his hair and pulls, resting his elbows on the desk and staring at the screen.

He shakes himself out of it an indeterminate time later. The screen has shut off to conserve power. He moves the mouse and it brightens back up. Still trying to shake off the memory, he flips back to Tony's page, scanning through the whole thing to look for info. When he comes across the section labeled 'Extremis project,' he perks up and pays attention. There are several photos of test tubes, human skin, first burnt to the point of being nearly unrecognizable, then healed without a trace of the previous injury. That definitely matches the small woman from before. _'Abilities include super strength, advanced healing factor, and instability, including possible spontaneous combustion if manhandled. Early experiments showed only its useful qualities. Many veterans received the treatment to repair damaged or lost limbs from combat. Myriad lawsuits are still ongoing.'_

It seems likely that the makers of Extremis were involved with SHIELD at some point, from this information. So he was right about the small woman. Probably drafted to 'fix' her size disadvantages.

He goes back and searches 'Steve Rogers.' He has to sift through a dozen fan pages and an equal amount of hate pages. The article about Rogers is so full of hero-worship that he is beginning to wonder if one of the fans wrote this, as well. But finally, he comes to actual information. And he doesn't scan. He reads the whole thing.

He reads about Steven Grant Rogers, born July 4, 1918, in Brooklyn, New York. He reads about his early childhood, he reads about his fragile health and patriotic spirit. He reads about how he was given an experimental position in the SSR, and he feels his blood boil at the suggestion that the man somehow needed to be fixed to be worth something. He reads of the Howling Commandoes, and the Captain's eventual demise as he attempted to stop HYDRA from bombing cities around the world. He reads about how he was found at the bottom of the ocean two years ago, revived, and became a national symbol yet again by leading the Avengers and saving New York.

He closes the browser window. Gazes at the screen for a moment. He isn't sure if he dares to try. He opens the browser again. He hesitates. Then types 'winter soldier' into the bar.

There is no official article. No news stories. There are one or two websites. He clicks on the first link. It leads to a page with a black color scheme and easily two hundred paragraphs of badly punctuated theories. But there is a grain or two of truth. There are several faces he recognizes among targets. Places that seem vaguely familiar. And the description.

_The winter soldier is somewhat of a legendary figure among the intelligence community. Over the last fifty years, there were many mysterious or efficiently-executed murders that remained unsolved. No evidence besides the Soviet slug, no rifling, and the corpse. No perpetrator to be found. There have been excuses and other explanations offered. But there is no question in my mind; the winter soldier exists. I know because I've seen him._

The asset can't help but wonder if the person who made this website is even still alive. Their site certainly doesn't look like it's been updated in two or three years. He tries to remember that day on the bridge on the helicarrier. What had the targ--Rogers called him? It had started with a b, hadn't it?

Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. He types the name into the search bar. The first thing that comes up is the Smithsonian. The exhibit. It's beginning to look like he needs to take a trip.

\---

He shuffles in a group of tourists through the halls of the huge museum. He wears the coat, with a glove over his left hand, and a baseball cap pulled over his hair. The exhibit is painted over with neon red-white-and-blue. Black-and-white photographs are plastered everywhere. He hangs back behind a group of little kids, and glances at the exhibits as he passes. There are size comparisons to Rogers' previous body and his current one _(...he came just up to his chin. They're the same size now.)_ There are pictures and replicas, and...

The blue coat is there, and he barely prevents himself from staggering backwards into someone. It's impossible that it's the same one. He was wearing it when they took him. It must be a replica.

But he remembers it.

Back on the helicarrier, when he had been in pain and confused and afraid, when Ste--Rogers had locked eyes with him and said "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you've known me your whole life," he hadn't believed it. It didn't make sense. It wasn't possible. He had dismissed it as some trick meant to distract him from the mission. But the more he learns on his own, the more sense it makes.

And now, as he gazes at the display of his own face in the Smithsonian, he knows there is no denying it.

 _I am James Buchanan Barnes_.

And facing the reality of his identity means facing everything that goes with it.

He reads the inscriptions, listens to the narrator with the benevolent voice. How Bucky Barnes a kid from Brooklyn, with parents and sisters, and a best pal--Steve Rogers. How he was a soldier, a Howling Commando, a national hero. The only one to give his life in service of his country.

And he knows now that he has. It's 2014. Any family he once had is dead. Anyone, anything, anywhere he knew is completely, utterly gone. Even the mission is gone.

 _No._ The mission isn't gone. But the rules of the game have changed.

He clenches his fists, flesh and metal, as he stands there. He feels something coursing through him, something he hasn't felt since he last fired a perfect shot, won at a game of cards, saw fireworks on a summer night at home. Caring. Meaning. Purpose.

_My name is James Barnes._

_HYDRA took my life away._

_It won't happen again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've finally reached the end of the movie! So now what happens is entirely up to me. *evil laugh.*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, this only took what, two or three months? I'm sorry, I really didn't think it'd take me this long. But this chapter was a monster to write--I started writing it, then didn't like how it played out, didn't see a way to connect it to the plot, and finally just re-thought the scenario and started over. Hopefully it's not too obvious.

He returns to the car and starts it. Pulling out of the Smithsonian, somehow he feels better than before. The task before him is still daunting, but at least now he has some idea of where to start.

The incident at the bank made one thing clear; HYDRA is definitely still operating, with impressive efficiency despite being suddenly cast into the spotlight. It's difficult to consider how widespread their reach may be. Barnes' head spins just thinking about it. The ache is building in his temples again, and he rubs his forehead with his flesh hand as he drives.

He has vague flashes of how easy it was for the handlers to predict where someone would be, how simple it was to corner them and dispose of them. Did the handlers find out where the targets would be, or were they already spying on them? Were tracking devices implanted into certain targets?

 _Tracking devices_. He nearly runs the car off the road.

 _You knucklehead..._ Why hadn't he thought about this before? He'd been in HYDRA's hands for seventy plus years, so of course they've implanted a tracker somewhere. His eyes rove over his torso, his right arm, his left...

Of course. It has to be in his left. It's looking like it was a good idea to bring the paper.

If he had to make a guess, it'll take the HYDRA spooks a few hours to realize something's up at the bank. So it seems that if he's ever going to carry out the mission, he'll need to find out where the rest of the colony went.

So: return to the bank, find a good spot to cool his heels and wait for them to return and find out what happened. Capture one of them and interrogate them. Find out where their orders are coming from. And find some tools.

***

One quick visit to a hardware store later, he's hunkered down in his previous position on the rooftop. He had to approach carefully; there are police and government suits everywhere. He's fairly certain none of them are HYDRA, but he's watching out of the corner of his eye while working.

Now, to business. He studies the surface of his arm carefully. There don't seem to be any screws or other hardware that would be securing the ridged panels in place. He pulls the paper from his pocket and unfolds it. It looks like the whole thing is an interlocking lattice of metal. There's some type of panel or seam in the middle of his upper arm.

He runs his flesh fingers along the metal a few times, feeling for a latch or weakness in the structure. When he presses on something and it gives, he pulls the panel open. The interior is full of interlocking joints and a few panels of circuitry. A couple bundles of wires, too. Recently fixed, by the looks of them. He consults the schematic again.

There's definitely a tracking device. He supposes he's lucky it was planted in the mechanical arm and not elsewhere. He's also mildly surprised to find that there's nothing attached to it. Then again, he guesses HYDRA wouldn't risk blowing up one of their greatest weapons if he somehow escaped.

The chip is plainly visible, so he carefully reaches in and removes it. As soon as he has it, he pops the panel back into place.

He glances at the tiny chip resting in his palm. He wonders if they can tell that he's removed it. If there isn't anything to tell them, it might be a good idea to keep it. It could be useful. He tucks it into his pocket.

He turns to scan over the commotion near the bank. There are various police cars parked in a ring all around the building, their lights flashing. There's an ambulance and an armored truck. There are at least twenty officers, if not more. A few reporters and photographers standing outside the barrier and talking. Some bystanders who are apparently unemployed. The bomb squad hanging around as they eat lunch. One of them casually walking away from the group...

Barnes gets up and carefully climbs down, keeping the guy in sight the whole time. His right hand goes to the knife, fingers grasping it, though he keeps it hidden in his jacket for the time being. The grunt in question is walking slowly, seemingly nonchalantly, towards the smoking ruins. He glances at the pile of brick and drywall, kicks at a corner lightly, and keeps walking. His eyes rove over the rubble; assessing the damage. Barnes hides behind a stack of the debris and keeps his gaze fixed on the spook. The guy's expression doesn't change, even as his hand slides ever-so-slowly into his pocket. He turns and walks away.

The edges of Barnes lips turn up in a mirthless smile. It won't be long.

***

He takes a bit of a break from his stakeout to break into the local police department. Between the explosion and the helicarriers, the force is stretched thin...and meanwhile there's an entire warehouse full of confiscated SHIELD weaponry just sitting there. He takes twelve knives of varying sizes, a rifle, a handgun, and a few explosives for good measure. He stows a belt with enough ammo to build a brass bed set. He also returns to the building where he hid his body armor. The leather is relatively dry but has a bit of a mildewy smell to it.

 By the time he's returned to the bank, the sun has dipped past the horizon, and the crowd has mostly cleared off. There are only a few policemen left standing guard. He sets up a sniping position on the roof, attaching the scope and checking it. He focuses on the face of one of the men, a lanky guy who looks far younger than he probably is. The scope seems to be performing properly, so he pulls back and loads it, leaving the safety on for now.He sets the rifle beside him on the roof and sprawls out, chin resting on his right arm.

It's unlikely that HYDRA will show up early; there's still too many people out to see them. If he had to guess, their move won't come until early in the morning. He traces his flesh fingers over his left arm and the various seams and joints that form it. It's pretty quiet up here if you don't mind a bit of road noise. The temperature is cool but not freezing. All in all, he almost enjoys being up here. He'd almost forgotten what sitting peacefully felt like.

He shifts his head slightly and winces when he accidentally pulls at a stray lock of his hair, which is really dirty and tangled by this point. The dry, sticky texture of the strands reminds him of a broom. Might be a good idea to comb it at some point. It's not good for blending in.

He doesn't need sleep as much as a normal person would. He'd learned that from missions a few times. He'd arrive back at the rendezvous point, only to find all the handlers sacked out in the van, or wherever they were based that time. Luckily for them, he never wandered off--but he also never did any of his necessary maintenance. The results were several new sets of weapons, a few new mask designs, and new body armor after a target had thrown the nearest available weapon-like item at him--which had turned out to be a bottle of bleach. He supposed that one had been necessary--no one would take death-Nazis seriously if their greatest assassin looked like a cow.

He chuckled slightly at the thought. His voice sounded odd and rusty even to himself.

The traffic died down awhile ago--now he hears the rumble of a heavy vehicle headed in this direction. He raises his head just slightly enough to see an armored van, similar to the bomb squad van from earlier. This one, however, is marked with the CIA logo. He'd already suspected that there were moles in other government agencies. Now, his suspicions are confirmed.

He lifts the rifle and positions it, carefully adjusting the scope. A guy in standard swat gear gets out of the front seat, accompanied by four others. The head guy steps up and begins talking to the leading officer. Even with his enhanced hearing, Barnes can only pick up bits and pieces of the conversation--something about jurisdiction and authorization--but the cops clear off and the guy marches onward towards the rubble. He points a finger at the rest of his team, orders them. They nod and set into motion, a two of them breaking off and drawing out some type of gadget, scanning the wreckage. The boss and another guy are suiting up; it looks like they're trying to see if the building can take them getting into the vault. The last guy is apparently standing guard.

Barnes levels his gaze in the scope. Picking them off one by one isn't optimal for interrogation. The main suit is probably the one who knows the most, but also the least likely to talk. He needs a distraction, and then needs to go in, close range.

He aims directly above the guardsman's head. He draws a breath silently. Then he flips the safety off and pulls the trigger.The bullet embeds in the glass window of the next building over.

The guard drops flat, and there are cries of shock and surprise from the others. Barnes leaps up quickly, drawing a smoke grenade from his vest, pulling the pin, and throwing it even as he scrambles down the ladder. He hears the hiss and crack as it goes off, sees the smoke begin to billow around the rubble. He moves quickly and carefully across the debris, before drawing the knife, bracing himself, then vaulting over the rubble, landing in the midst of the group. One of them, a woman, apparently with better reflexes than most, immediately fires at him. He manages to block most of the projectiles, but a couple get through, and he flinches. He can tell, however, that these aren't normal bullets; they're some type of tranquilizer. He doesn't have much trouble with tranquilizers, but if he's hit too many times, it could affect his balance, and that could make combat more difficult.

With that in mind, he throws a kick at the woman's wrist, and her gun goes flying. He swings his leg around and knocks hers from beneath her. She falls and strikes her head against the rubble and stays down.

He turns to the others, throwing the knife at one while shooting another in the side. They drop. And that's when the stun baton hits him in the side.

He can feel his heart stutter slightly as the burning, constricting pain shoots down his side. He struggles to pull back, finally staggering a step away...only to be hit again from the other side. He whips his head to the side. His shocked gaze lands on the lanky cop from earlier. He would curse himself for being so stupid, but he's too busy trying to think because he's been cornered again, and there are so many of them, and panic is bubbling up inside him. The stun baton in his side is snapped in half. He leaps, throwing a punch at the grunt holding the thing. He drops, swearing and clutching at his face, but ten more people take his place, each with a stun baton. Electricity courses through him from several points, and it's a battle to move.

Then there are hands on him, trying to secure him. He bucks, thrashing and punching and kicking and even clawing. The hands don't stop. Neither does he.

Somehow, above the grunts of effort, crashes of the rubble as they bang into it, and various cries, he hears a low, satisfied voice. "Sputnik."

Then he hears nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, another update, and it feels like they keep getting harder. Sorry if it's really disjointed, I tried.

There are flashes of color, snippets of sound. Days and months and years seem to swirl together in his mind. There are moments he feels are recent, and others seemingly from a lifetime ago. Stained glass, blood on concrete, falling snow, and frosted skin all flutter through his consciousness. Then he is thrust into a tub full of icy water and wakes with a jerk.

He is lying on his chest, a cold concrete floor pressed against his cheek. His back is stiff, and he is shivering; stripped of his body armor. His hands are behind his back, and when he tries pulling them apart, he can't. Same with his feet. Last, but not least, he's pinned beneath a file cabinet.

Great. He could kill himself for that fiasco. He should have realized that it was far too easy.

Glancing around a bit more, he seems to be in some type of warehouse; it's a large, open space, currently relatively empty, a few large crates placed here and there. It's quiet, save for a distant conversation he would have no hope of hearing without enhanced senses. Even with his enhancements, he can only catch a few words. "...stupid. If...caught..."

"...got him, didn't..." "...command..."

"...reward..." He swallows hard. He was right. Command is elsewhere, and still operating without delay. Now would be an optimal time to search for intel. If he wasn't threatened with imminent delivery to the hands of the devil incarnate. He reaches up as far as possible and fingers the bonds that tie his hands. They're zip-ties. There must be five or more.

For normal people, this would be a huge problem. For him, his concern is stealth. He pauses to brace himself, then pulls as hard as possible on the bonds. They snap, and he shakes the sharp plastic off. Very carefully, he lifts the cabinet off of himself, setting it down quietly.

Now, for a weapon. He glances around. There are a few loose boards from the crates, a discarded rope, an old magazine, and a pile of broken glass. It'll have to do.

He walks as quickly and silently as possible towards the other end of the warehouse. Up in the scaffolding on the next story, there's an office of some sort. He can hear conversation clearly from here; an argument over who gets to take the credit for his capture. He wraps his hand around a support pole and climbs onto the walkway above, ducking low to the ground. There are two agents inside, wrapped up completely in their argument.

Not for long. He waits until their shouting is at its peak. Then he leaps up and punches through the glass with his left arm.

Their gazes snap up in shock, the younger one diving for his gun, the older ones lips parting "Spu--"

Barnes leaps on him, sliding the rope into both his hands and wrapping it tightly around the man's neck. "Not this time, asshole," he snarls, pulling him close, then throwing him across the room. He lands on the younger guy, who struggles for a crucial second, as Barnes crosses the room in two strides, knocking his gun out of his hand and delivering a solid punch to his ribcage with his flesh hand. The kid drops next to his CO.

Barnes straightens, panting, as he makes sure they don't rise. Then he sighs, and turns, quickly glancing out the window. There's no sign of the rest of the outpost. Rendezvous probably wasn't until later. By the angle of the sun, it's mid-afternoon. He needs to move, and soon.

First things first, though. He searches both of the men. Each of them has multiple cell phones; a personal one, a work one, and a secure one, if he had to guess. The call history is full of contacts; parents, friends, family, co-workers. The internet history is similarly full. Nothing obvious, though. The room is full of computers, empty soda cans and fast food containers, and papers and boxes stacked to the ceiling. It seems a bit jumbled and disorganized for a hub--but he supposes that they might have had to relocate in a hurry. He begins carefully sifting through the papers. Many of them are wrinkled badly, and most of them seem useless. There are blueprints for machines he doesn't recognize, pages and pages of medical research and records, files on people he doesn't recognize. He pulls down another boxful, and the papers tumble out onto the floor.

A map. He grabs one of the papers, unfolding it. The paper is crisp and relatively new--and it's dotted with stickers at seemingly random intervals around the globe. He smiles slightly. Finally, a lead.

A shrill ringtone breaks the silence, and he tenses. He turns and glances at the small, overcrowded table he'd set the phones on. The screen of one of them is on. The caller-ID says 'undisclosed,' and his blood runs cold.

The older of the two men seems to have been roused by the phone ringing, because he is gazing at Barnes, scrutinizing him even as blood lazily trickles down his face from a cut at his hairline. "If I don't answer, they'll suspect something," he says cautiously.

"Or maybe they'll think you're being a lazy SOB and ignoring it," Barnes responds derisively. Still, he hesitates a moment before swiping his flesh finger across the screen.

Apparently, they're not used to demanding passwords, because the voice on the other end begins talking immediately. "Nichols? Orders just came down, you are not to establish anything here, alright? They're moving as all over to Europe within two months. We're splitting up for the time being. You'll be assigned a cover and then you're moving. Do you copy?"

Barnes glances up at the man--Nichols, he supposes. He meets the gaze, licking his lips slightly.

"Copy." Barnes says coarsely. Then he jabs his thumb down on the end call button. He tosses the phone to the floor and crushes it beneath his heel, then shakes the glass off of his boot.

He glances back up at Nichols. His expression has not changed, but there's sweat forming on his brow, and he's unconsciously working his hands in a futile reflex to escape. "I suppose this is the point where you kill me, right?"

"Do you want to go to Europe?" Barnes asks.

The man blinks. "Not really." Barnes strides across the room. The man flinches back into the wall, but he can only move so far. Barnes drops in front of him, and Nichols closes his eyes. Barnes reaches out with his metal hand, and rips the zip tie in two. They fall harmlessly off his wrists.

The man stares up at him, confusion in his gaze. "Consider this a chance to reconsider your employment," Barnes says simply. He nods to the younger agent, who is just beginning to stir. "Take your pal there, and leave. Stay away from HYDRA, and you'll never have to see my ugly mug again. But if you so much as set foot in a base, I will hear of it. And there is not a hole on this planet that you'll be able to hide in. Understood?"

Nichols nods. He stands slowly, rubbing his wrists as he walks across the room, pulling his comrade into a fireman's carry with some difficulty. He staggers off down the steps, and Barnes watches through the window as he loads the man into his car and drives off.

He nods to himself. He needs to be out of here within the hour.

He grabs the map with the locations marked on it, folding it and shoving it into his pocket. Then he leaves the office, going back into the warehouse. He digs the fingers of his metal hand into the lid of the crate and yanks it off. The crate is filled with weapons, ammo, and explosives. He smiles.

That afternoon, the warehouse goes up in flames. By the time local law enforcement responds, there's barely anything left but the foundation, smoldering ruins spewing smoke into the evening sky.

***

Mist hovers in the air, coating the multi-colored lights in a foggy gloom as Barnes carefully climbs the high, chain-link fence in a darker corner of the airfield.

He has to get to Europe. That much is obvious, if he wants to take out HYDRA. The handlers are gone, so he has no transportation at his disposal. There are too many people, too many cameras, too many eyes on him in an airport.

He'd left the car a few blocks from the house he'd lifted it from. Hopefully, someone will report it to the police, and the owner will get it back. It's odd, he'd only used the car for a few days, but he almost felt sad to gather his things and leave it. Those few days had been better than most of his life, as he could remember it.

He has a few thousand dollars in cash tucked into his jacket, along with a handgun, and a few grenades hooked onto his belt. But with his jacket with the hood pulled up, he looks like one of the many freight workers who load cargo into the belly of the plane.

There's a flight he knows is headed for an airport in southwestern Ukraine, near one of the locations on the map. From there, he can cross the border into Poland, Belarus, Latvia, Sokovia, and maybe even Germany.

First things first, though. He has to get on the plane. The wheel well is one of the only spots he could make it into, but it's very high, and it'll take him a few minutes to climb up. He has a very small window of opportunity. The first sight of his chance, and he'll have to run for it.

He hurries to duck behind a truck, idling in the runway as the workers load cargo into the hold. He presses his back against the cool metal, glancing towards the plane. From the amount of suitcases they're piling in, he guesses it won't be long. He waits until he can see the men headed back towards the truck. Then he darts around in the opposite direction, sprinting towards the tire. As soon as he reaches it, he jumps, digging his metal fingers into the tire. Luckily, the lining is very thick, so he can't damage it too badly. He swings his right arm up, digging another handhold, then repeats the process.

A third of the way up, and he can feel the plane starting to taxi down the runway. He keeps going, trying to keep his pace steady and not give in to the temptation to go faster; rushing himself could prove fatal. He swings up, grabs another handhold, ignores the way his shoulders are aching, the sweat beginning to soak into his shirt. The wind is rushing faster, and the well is only a little higher. He swings up and grasps onto the edge, curling his fingers around it. He takes a moment to brace himself, then pulls himself up all at once and tumbles over and onto the floor of the wheel well, crawling over and curling tightly in the corner as his ears roil while the plane ascends.

Eventually, everything evens out, and though the wind whistles loudly in his ears, it's almost pleasant. The wind cools him from his climb, and he carefully removes his jacket, keeping a firm hold on it. They rise above the clouds, and the sky is bathed orange from the setting sun. It's breathtaking. He almost doesn't notice as the sun slowly sets, and the temperature drops.

He isn't sure how much time has passed when he notices he's cold. So he pulls his jacket back around himself, drawing his knees up to his chest. The wind is so loud in his ears. Air. There's air everywhere. Cold air. He shivers. The metal surrounding him wavers, his heart feels odd and fast and hurts in his chest. His lungs ache. He feels sweat trickling down his neck, making him shiver harder. He burrows further down into the jacket, trying vainly to keep some warmth. He presses his head back against the metal and tries to ignore it. He's had worse.

He wakes sometime later...maybe. He hadn't meant to drift off. The wind is still whistling, but it's dark now...and rain is splattering his face, almost stinging.

He's tired. Which doesn't make sense, because he just woke up. He tries to move, but his limbs are stiff and numb, and he's too weak to move them. It's so damn cold.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a little voice is screaming at him, that he's hypothermic and is probably suffering from hypoxia, as well. He needs to stay awake. He glances around. Several feet from where he sits, a little beam of colored light is reflecting onto the metal; probably from one of the lights mounted on the plane. He fixes his gaze on the little burst of color, tries to hold onto it, refuses to close his eyes. The little light grows even smaller as it speeds off to his right in a blur, and the train is stories above him, the distance growing every second, and he thinks he hears a cry from Steve, echoing through the biting cold wind rushing past him so loudly that he can hardly hear his own screams.

And suddenly there's a horrible jarring, his left arm is wrenched agonizingly and he nearly wails, and he's falling again.

The water is frigid, and takes him by surprise. He plunges through a sheen of ice, and is swept off, repeatedly being pulled under, and somehow rising again.

He blinks his eyes open, aching and winded, and gazes up at snow falling through the trees, and wonders why he is alive.

And even still conscious.

Which is very unfortunate. It hurts to breathe--broken rib, probably. There are likely dozens more minor breaks and bruises, and his arm--his arm feels like it's been submerged in acid. Something wet and hot is seeping into the snow and trickling down his back and onto his neck. He can't turn his neck, so he doesn't look.

He doesn't want to see, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, so I haven't seen Age of Ultron, yet, but I have a faint idea of how to maybe mingle this with canon. I also have a basic structure for the story, and I know where I want it to end--I just have to figure out how to get it there. Hopefully it won't be too much of a fail.


End file.
